A Moment
by Storymaster Caith
Summary: The contemplation of a lover. Warnings: slash, yaoi, sexual situation. Definitely not for children.


**_A/N: All children under the age of eighteen should probably leave. waits patiently okay, for the rest of you who are still here, welcome to another totally random Kim Possible piece. Pairing? Yeah, like you had to guess. Warnings: Slash. sexual situations/descriptions. Lack of plot or even backstory. Has been known to give bible bangers hives and an embarassing rash. Is that it? looks around Yep, that's about it. _**

**A Moment **

I love it when he moans.

It's a low sound, deep; his voice rattles my bones. In excitement, happiness, or scholarly wonder it is warm, and light, like the last patch of dusty sun in the afternoon; in anger it is the low rumble of thunder and the shriek of lightning. In pleasure, it's velvet rasping over skin. If I could bottle his voice, and sell it, then we wouldn't need his inherited fortune. But that would require sharing him, and that is something I won't do.

I shift a little and he grabs me, tight. He isn't very loud; he never is. He's only begged once, the first time, when both of us were burning up with the power we couldn't fully understand. I had always assumed he would be the one to take control, to press me down and have his way. I was, sufficiently put, dead wrong. He let me in with no qualms, and when I claimed him as mine I was the most powerful man in the world. When I asked him later, why that first time he let me take the lead, he'd smiled in that infuriatingly 'I am older and wiser than thou' sort of way and said, "I wouldn't take anything I wouldn't give back."

He's whispering my name now, in soft, panting gasps. God I love hearing him say my name. It rolls off his tongue, both syllables warm and dripping with honey. No one else has ever said my name that way. No one else has ever called me by my full name on a regular basis. Once I was notorious for having the name everyone forgot, but not him. He never forgot, never shortened my name, called me anything but what my birth certificate reads. It's like he can't think of me as only one syllable. He won't.

I push a little harder and he moans a little deeper, opening his eyes and staring up at me. His eyes are grey. Very, very grey, like snow clouds or slate. They're dazed now, lusty, but I can still see the banked fire there. He reaches out a hand and pulls me down, kissing me hard. His kisses are like mini-volcanoes exploding. He releases me, arcing his back as I thrust again. I grasp his hand- his bio-genetically attached hand, which has saved me from falls, steadied me when I felt sick, brought me pleasure and pain beyond imagining. This hand, which knows one hundred and forty one unarmed methods for killing a man, brushes against my face with the gentleness of a butterfly wing.

I whisper his name in his ear as I ride him. He was up and studying when I found him; some ancient civilization that speaks a language no one remembers, but he speaks perfectly. I saw him pinch the bridge of his nose, a frustrated sign. God only knows how long he had been working. I was certain he hadn't slept. He doesn't sleep when I'm gone, not really.

Well. I certainly had to remedy THAT, didn't I?

He's close. I can tell. We've shared a bed for four years, and I know his signs. I kiss his flat abdomen, love his bellybutton with my tongue; in his more lucid moments he praises my flexibility, but right now he is nothing more than a mass of feeling, ready for a meltdown. I want nothing more than to give it to him.

I jerk, hard, pressing against that single spot inside of him just as I reach down and squeeze, and he comes with a low, drawn out groan, my name an endless parade on his lips as he squeezes me, riding out the sensation. I come moments afterward, filling him, and his soft whimper tells me all I need to know.

I collapse, pulling out in a smooth motion. He sighs at the loss of contact, pulls me flush against him.

"Feeling better?" I ask, and I know I'm grinning.

He raises a coal black eyebrow. "Now I remember why I never get work done when you're not on assignment." He says. I smile, nuzzle a small patch of chest hair. "You love it." I say. He doesn't deny it.

"I missed you." He whispers into my hair. I kiss his cheek.

"I missed you too." I reply. His hand grasps mine and for a moment, I see the gentle glow- one a bright yellow, one a silky black- issuing from our clasped fingers. I smile. Yin and Yang, light and dark. The Orient was on to something.

"Montgomery?" His full name. His full, gorgeous, achingly infuriating and aristocratic name.

"Yes, Ronald?" he replies.

"I love you."

He doesn't say anything; he merely pulls me close. I know it's hard for him to say it; he still can't quite believe it. But no one who didn't love me for all my screwballish self would hold me this tight.

**_A/N: Hit that review button. I dare you._**


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